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He gave her no time though. Abandoning the bed—and her—he dressed a shirt hurriedly and picked up a coat.
The woollen piece came from him so she would get something with which to cover herself to return to her chamber. He informed. “I will call the priest here tomorrow.” He handed her the garment. “And tell Seamus to hold his blabber until we are married.” With that, he gyrated and exited the chamber.
CHAPTER NINE
Taran marched like a bullet through the kitchens towards the loch. Again.
For the same reason. Again.
The headstrong witch turned his life upside down and did not even blush with guilt.
Again.
When he saw her by his side in his bed, something snapped in his guts. He did not understand what it might be. Not even the knowledge of her schemes erased it. He mused as he dived and swam vigorously, hoping to subside his rampant condition.
That she thwarted his designs yet one more time made him mad. As usual. Nevertheless, marriage to her felt… right. It felt right and he could not fathom why. It was as though a burden lifted from his shoulders. Her in his chambers. She belonged there. With him. To give her pleasure, to take care of her, to live with her. It all felt right. Too much.
Too damned much!
To witness her gone to ashes because of him, the sounds she emitted, her hunger for him, mirrored by his for her, transformed him in a randy teenager. Alright, so the way he basically coerced her to accept his proposal—a command, more like it—not entirely honourable. It was either this or let her go. No way! Twenty-four hours were going to stretch like a year until they got married. Even if every time they confronted one another, sparks flew like in a blacksmith shop. Hot and smelting.
This woman was a hurricane.
The fact she could choose from several suitors caused him to see red. That she would sleep with someone else twisted his insides with a red-hot iron spear. Though this was exactly what he brought her here for, was it not. Had he succeeded, he might have gone deranged. He must admit it at least to himself. He had solely the buidseach to thank after all.
Twenty-four hours would be eternity.
Bluidy hell!
~.~.~
Sam himself opened the door when Taran arrived at Seamus’ cottage later. Father eyed son with a stern look. Sam regaled him with a mischievous one. That woman had something to do with it. And who could blame her for putting a smile on his son’s usually grave round-glassed stance?
Behind the boy stood Seamus, arms crossed, a reproving glance at his Laird. “If ye were not The McDougal, we would go out to the yard to straighten this.” The man he regarded as high as his father said.
His sensuous lips pressed one another before he spoke. “No need.” He met the older man’s stony face in full. “I will marry her.”
“Such a sacrifice!” Grace intervened with a grimace, inferring the bride-to-be’s beauty would offer no hardship there.
“But father!” Sam approached them. “She does not want to marry a McDougal.”
“She must, Sam. Or her reputation may be tainted.”
A worried look came to his son.
“By the way,” he continued to the older pair, “I would like to request you not to talk about this to anyone.”
The couple nodded in agreement. “What about the boy?” Seamus challenged.
Taran gazed at his son. “Care to explain?”
The adolescent drafted a faint smile. “I am quite relieved I will not have to marry so soon.”
Seamus barked a loud laugh. “No man does, son!” And to Taran. “The boy is rather smart, despite being yours.”
The Laird grinned humourless. He saw food for thought here if his own son expressed such opinion. Did he really push the boy into unhappiness, just as his father did to him? Would he himself have chosen differently had he had the chance? But his marriage brought Sam whom he loved immensely. The marriage itself? Maybe not, despite everything. This copycat of that recipe for disaster he should not forget, he noted mentally. Though Aileen proved to be much more grounded than his late wife, it did not mean his son would be happy with her. Or she with him.
How daft could he be?
